


Toothpaste Kisses

by j_ranked



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Morning Routines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9806582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_ranked/pseuds/j_ranked
Summary: Shiro and Keith get ready for the day.





	

Keith is still sleep-soft, clad in boy shorts and an oversized t-shirt, when Shiro joins him in the bathroom. The sun from the tiny window is pouring into the room, haloing Keith’s messy locks. His eyes look purple in the morning light. Shiro can’t help himself, stepping closer to pull the other gently to his chest. A small noise is the only protest as Keith continues to lazily brush his teeth. Cinnamon-flavored foam speckles his lips, muted bristles _scratch, scratch, scratching_ at teeth. Their bangs mix together, silver tangling with rich brown, as they sway, Shiro murmuring an adoring ‘good morning’.

The silence is peaceful, the rising sun bringing a tranquility that the two usually struggle to find. Shiro’s shoulders are lax, his mind distractingly quiet, and his body aches a little less – phantom pains he knows will set in as topaz skies transition into cotton candy blue. Keith is gentle, edges filed smooth, the supernova beneath his chest cavity dimmed to quiet embers. He leans into his touch, receptive in a way he rarely is, usually shaken by murky uncertainty. The thought makes Shiro hold onto the younger a bit tighter, wanting to cherish this moment for a little longer. Keith smells like fresh green apples.

A bit too tight, seeing as Keith finally starts to worm out of his arms, squirming as his mouth twists around his toothbrush. Shiro drops a quick kiss to his crown before releasing him, gathering his essentials on his counter side. Keith spits into the sink, gargles tap water, spits again. He dirties the borrowed shirt as he swipes at his face to get rid of the water. Shiro squeezes a generous amount of paste on the bristles of his brush. Sharp mint fills his mouth.

“…Morning,” Keith finally greets, voice raspy with sleep.

Shiro smiles at him through the mirror, grin widening when Keith lets out a small huff of amusement at the foam now dribbling down his chin. He lifts the hem of Shiro’s shirt, the one he’s wearing, and wipes it off for him.

“You always use too much, Takashi,” he complains, sounding entirely too fond. Warmth floods his chest, filling him with glimmering stardust.

Being the mature adult he is, Shiro pokes the side of Keith’s torso in retaliation, inducting a startled giggle that turns into a playful game of keep-away. It ends with more toothpaste on Shiro’s chin than in his mouth. He rinses and they once again use Shiro’s shirt to clean up the water. The shirt is tossed into the laundry bin as they stray from the bathroom, changing into their day clothes. Some of the easiness from earlier fades, little by little, as the day’s responsibilities encroaches upon them.

Keith helps adjust his shirt into a more comfortable position where flesh meets metal; he presses absentminded petal kisses on the scarring as Shiro brushes through his hair, trying to tame the curls. They part; looking each other over, making sure everything is in place. Shiro smooths his hands over Keith’s cheeks, resting his forehead against the other’s.

They stand there for a minute, just breathing the same air.

Keith is the first to initiate the kiss, as always. He tilts his head up, eyelashes fluttering against gentle hands, and Shiro meets him halfway. It’s tentative, careful – a trust fall in slow motion. They part with a quiet pop. On que, Keith’s nose wrinkles as he steps away towards the door, where they will leave this quiet vulnerability, one to return to when the sun is setting.

“Your toothpaste still tastes terrible,” the younger announces, as if he hasn’t already said this countless times. There’s comfort in the repetition, as if repeating it enough times will make it so neither of them has to go through the morning alone again.

Shiro hip checks Keith as they walk out of the room, shoulders tensing, mind static, body aching.

“Yours still tastes like cinnamon.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on Valentine's Day, but didn't have an account yet, so here's some fluff I wrote while in an especially mushy mood. I haven't written in a couple years, so I hope it turned out alright. Constructive criticism is much appreciated!


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